


Eliots Secret

by rizcriz



Series: tumblr is dying time to get compiling [7]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-11
Packaged: 2019-09-16 07:11:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16949391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rizcriz/pseuds/rizcriz
Summary: In which Eliot has a secret.





	Eliots Secret

“What’s that?” Quentin asks from the doorway. 

Eliot jumps, eyes going wide as he frantically shoves his small blue and yellow blanket into his nightstand drawer. “Nothing, go away,” He says, folding it as quickly and carefully as he can. 

“It’s something,” Quentin insists. 

“Fine,” Eliot looks over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes, “It’s none of your business. Shoo.” 

Quentin stares at him for a minute, smile slowly falling away, before moving into the room, closing the door behind him and leaning against it. “What’s going on?” He asks, eyebrows furrowed like he’s wondering if he’s done something wrong, and god damn it all. Eliot can’t fucking handle kicked puppy dog face. He can handle a lot - but not  _that_. 

He sighs, fisting his fingers in the blanket, and looking down at it. “Q,” He murmurs, “If you tell anyone about this, I will personally see to it that you never experience any sexual pleasure again in your life.” He looks back up, stares at Quentin meaningfully. “Clear?” 

“Y- Crystal. But,” He moves into the room, “What exactly am I not talking about?” As Eliot narrows his eyes, Quentin shrugs, “Helps me keep from bringing it up. I’d like to protect any and all sexual pleasure I may or may not experience.” 

“I hate you,” Eliot mutters as he moves to stand up, clutching the blanket to his chest. It’s barely even big enough to stretch across his chest at full size, but still he bunches it up, and cradles it against himself as he turns to face Quentin. 

Quentin nods his head for a moment, “I know,” He says, small smile playing at his lips as he moves to sit on the edge of Eliot’s bed. “I love you, too.” 

Eliot rolls his eyes, hesitates for a moment. “Hold your hands out. Wait -,” he eyes the palms of Quentins hands, “You washed your hands, right?” 

Quentin’s eyes widen a fraction, before he nods, swallowing. “I mean. Yeah. Kind of gross not to,” He mutters, even as he turns them downward and runs the along the thighs of his jeans. 

A little flutter noses it’s way around Eliot’s stomach, appreciating the thought of the motion. “Good. Hold your hands out.” When Quentin’s hands delicately turn upwards, cutting the distance between them in half, Eliot slowly, carefully drapes the blanket over his palms. The small E.W. stitched into the corner with silk lace, shines up at both of them as Quentin brings his hands back to his lap to look over the blanket. 

“El,” Quentin murmurs, looking up at him. 

Eliot rolls his eyes, moving to sit next to him. “It’s - it’s not a big deal. It’s just my baby blanket.” 

“Has Margo ever -,” 

“God, no,” Eliot looks at him like he’s crazy. “I’d never hear the end of it.” 

“And you’re showing me?”

Eliot rolls his eyes again, flopping back until he’s staring up at the ceiling, and his arms are splayed over the top of the bed. “I never go anywhere without it,” He says, soft, not daring to look at Quentin, “It kind of … it’s this little comfort I get. It’s usually under my pillow, but I moved it for the Ibiza trip, and now I’m not going, -,” 

Quentin lies down next to him suddenly, putting the blanket in between them. “It’s a big deal,” He says, and Eliot’s relieved not to hear anything in the tone of his voice other than sincerity. “I’d say it’s cute, but you’d probably slap me.” 

“Eviscerate,” Eliot corrects, turning his head to look at him. “Slap is too gentle.” Quentin tries not to smile, so Eliot frowns. “What? Why is your face making that face?” 

“Because you’re soft,” He whispers, a grin blooming, “You’re a softie, and it’s beautiful.” 

“Stop mocking me.” He thought he could at least trust Quentin with his stupid fascination and obsession with the Fillory books to understand, but apparently not. 

Quentin’s arm comes over until he’s wrapping his hand around Eliot’s bicep, soft and not at all forceful. “I’m not,” He murmurs, “It’s just nice to see this side of you. I’m so used to witty, angry at the world, too good for softness, Eliot. Soft Eliot is just as interesting, you know.” 

“There’s no such thing as soft Eliot.” 

“Is too.” 

“Is not.” 

“Is tooo,” He sings, and Eliot sits up, pointing a finger at him, even as he smiles up at hi, innocent and honest, and annoyingly accepting, and so - so  _Quentin_. 

He groans, flopping back down, but this time burying his face in Quentin’s chest. “I hate you.” 

“No you don’t.” 

Eliot sighs dramatically, lifting his head just enough to make eye contact with him. He appraises him with his soft hair and shining eyes, and fucking puppy face, “No,” He mutters, burying his face in Quentin’s t-shirt, “I suppose not.” 

“Want me to put it up and go away so you can get some sleep?” 

Eliot shakes his head, pulling the blanket closer to him, until it’s on top of Quentin’s chest beneath his arm, just above Eliot’s head. “No, and don’t you dare move, Q,” He says, voice muffled as he curls up against Quentin’s side. 

Quentin laughs, soft and without any malice or judgment behind it, “Wouldn’t dream of disturbing your beauty sleep.” 

“We both know my beauty comes naturally.” 

“Of course.” 

“Go to sleep, Q.” 

“Okay.” 


End file.
